


Have I Told You

by Rileywrites_parker



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: F/M, Marvel Universe, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Protective Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 06:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16928169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rileywrites_parker/pseuds/Rileywrites_parker
Summary: You’d silently crushed on Peter all throughout your childhood, and even into adulthood, paying attention to him from afar but never having the courage to do anything about it. Until your job allows the avenue to connect with Peter, which turns into a full blown friendship. One evening something happens, you are attacked by a group of thugs, Spider-man comes to the rescue in the nick of time. You come to Spider-man’s rescue in the nick of time.





	Have I Told You

**Author's Note:**

> So I finally cracked and did some writing for Spider-man. Namely a Peter Parker and reader imagine. I didn’t like the idea of plugging in a bunch of [Y/N] everywhere, so I kept it very open.
> 
> Be aware that this a bit on the mature side. It’s also very angsty, with some good fluff intermixed throughout. It jumps back and forth in time to tell a story. Peter is in his early twenties here.
> 
> Based off of Tom Holland’s Spider-man, because obviously he’s the best.
> 
> Triggers to be aware of: Mentions of possible rape and death. Angst. Very brief mentions of nudity.

The rain was coming down in torrents. The stench of garbage, sweat and blood hit your nostrils as everything dampened. Saltiness met your lips as you tasted the tears and blood from the gash above your brow they had left you with. Your breath was coming too fast; ragged, stuttering, and wheezy; the burning smell of gunpowder finally matching your inhale. Your chest ached. Your head was pounding in time with your racing heart.

You were cold.

Surely he was dead.

The sound of the gun should’ve been loud enough to wake anyone. In fact, you could hear people calling out from their windows; a shadow looked down from the fire escape above; sound making its way to your ears, but your brain wasn’t ready, wasn’t able to process it with the sight of the bodies in front of you. The broken figure in blue and red, his brown locks peeking out from the places his mask had split open. His skin was alarmingly pale, shocking against the colors of the suit. You had never seen him this still.

You couldn’t remember when you had fallen to your knees only that they were screaming at you; aching. Everything ached.

“Peter?” That couldn’t be your voice; it was too soft, too weak. Red rivulets ran towards you, streaming from him, dancing and swirling, following the path of the water pooling around your limbs.

“Peter, please.” You had never begged. Not even when they had you shoved against the wall. Not when they held you down, held a knife to your throat, a gun to your skull; the gravel and broken glass burrowing into your back and shoulders as your shirt was torn from you.

“I need you to get up now, Peter.” The shrill sound of police sirens echoed through the alley. It was enough to make you move, to go to him. Carefully, the mask slid over his features, allowing you to take him in fully. His lip had been split and both eyes were blackened. He had blood in his hair.

There was more blood on your hands and under your fingernails; his face, a shock of white, you were afraid to touch him, to mar anymore of his flesh with red. Gently, cautiously, your fingertips found his cheek, “Peter.”

His dark eyelashes fluttered and then opened. You couldn’t stop the ugly sob that came from your throat as he came to, or the tears that poured from you as he lifted himself from the ground to pull your body to his; his entire form shaking with the effort. His fingers found your cheeks, your nose, lips, jaw, neck, shoulders, and back up, making a circuitous route, cataloging, assessing the damage; what he could see.

Then he saw.

“Oh,” his eyes were on your torso, taking in the state of your body, “oh.” He retracted his fingers from you at lightning speed, his features changing to one of outrage just as swiftly. He stood on shaky legs, grabbing what was left of his mask and slipping it on. The sound of sirens echoed loudly in the narrow space, over powering the sound of your pounding heart.

He held out a hand, “Come on then,” that couldn’t have been his voice, it was far too soft, too full of doubt, “before they get here.” His eyes avoiding yours, avoiding the bodies on the ground around you. A few were starting to move again. All but one, the one that had held the knife to his chest.

Your fingertips met, and tentatively, he pulled you close, tucking the front of you into his chest before lifting you up into the air and into the direction of his apartment.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Working at a café definitely had its perks. For one, it smelt wonderful. The deep, warm, nutty aroma of a good cup of coffee was enough to keep anyone coming back for more. The atmosphere in the particular café you had been employed in for months was fun. It was hip, artsy, and always full of interesting characters. Working behind the counter, mindlessly mixing beverages gave you plenty of opportunity to observe all of New York’s strange inhabitants.

It also allowed you to exchange words with a certain dork you hadn’t had the courage to speak to while you had been in high school. Or middle school. Or anywhere else, really.

“Good morning, Peter,” you didn’t need coffee to perk you up in the mornings. He was a regular. You could always count on your 8 o’clock pick me up. He had his blue sweater on today, “Have I told you that I like that color on you?”

“Thanks,” his answering grin crinkling his eyes, “and yes, only every time I wear it.” As he bellied up to the counter you started working on his drink.

“How are your classes going?” His eyes followed your hands as they poured milk into the cup and then set to work frothing.

“Really well, Peter, thanks for asking.” He raised his brow at that, as if he didn’t quite believe you. One eyebrow of his sat a little differently than the other, like he had been cut there once and the hairs had never grown back the same way after. You wanted to be allowed close enough to his face to check for a scar yourself.

“I remember last time you mentioned you were having some trouble in chemistry.” The wallet he pulled from his messenger bag was well worn, well loved. Had it belonged to someone else before? He had lost an Uncle a while back when you were younger. You remembered it being featured on some of the news outlets. You remember how quiet he had become for a long time after it happened, before he had met his friend Ned. “Did you find some help?”

You handed the warm drink over to him, your fingertips brushing in the exchange. You grinned sheepishly at him, “Ok, so I’m not doing really well in everything.” He passed the money over the counter.

He seemed to hesitate for a second, pinching his funny brows together, before lifting the corner of his mouth in a half grin and saying, “Well, I could help you out,” back pedaling a little before speaking again, “you know, if you’d want me to.”

Your beaming smile must have been answer enough, as he chuckled and dug in his bag again for a notebook and a pen. He scribbled out his phone number on a blank sheet, tearing it out of the book before giving it to you.

He stepped from the counter as you looked down at the number, his neat, even hand writing running parallel to the even lines of the paper. You had forgotten to say anything in the seconds that had passed as he stood there watching you with an amused look on his face, a red tinge taking over the tips of his ears and cheeks at your obvious excitement at having made it to this step with him, and the prospect of seeing him outside of this café.

“Ok, well I have to get to class myself. I’ll – I’ll, um, talk to you later?” He drew his last words out into a question as if he still wasn’t convinced that you were currently on cloud nine.

You came back to life in time to quickly blurt out a “Yes! Thank you, Peter!” as his hand reached the door. You watched him walk away with a grin on his face; your stomach full of giddy warmth.

An elderly woman at the counter cleared her throat, smiling at you with a knowing twinkle in her eye. “He’s cute. Having a good morning so far, sweetie?” You laughed as a blush took over your features.

“He’s good.” You set to work on the next set of orders.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Your feet touched down on the metal grating of the fire escape outside his bedroom window. He lived on his own now, but with the state of your appearances it was better to practice old habits. He went through the window first, turning around to offer his hands to help you in.

He still refused to meet you in the eye, gluing his gaze to the carpet of the room.

He had to have seen the body, the gun. He knew what you had done. You could still smell the gunpowder; could hear the shot, the scream, could see the mist of blood that had shot from his body as the bullet tore through him.

Now he couldn’t face you.

You both stood in silence, not moving, just breathing. You closed the window.

His breathing picked up, turning into desperate panting, his fists clenched, and he squeezed his eyes shut, wetness spilling from the edges of his eyes where they normally crinkled in happiness. He fell to his knees, his fists digging into his eyes, and then clenching around his hair.

“Peter…” your fingertips brushed against his shoulder. One shaky, gloved hand splayed out in your direction as he worked to control his breathing. That hand caught yours as you tried to take a step back from him, his fingers carefully embracing yours. A moment passed where all there was were your fingers in his; a small bit of warmth combating the cold that your body was wrought with.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. He released you, remaining on the ground for a minute more before standing to walk to the opposite side of the room, pulling a blanket from the end of his bed, and then holding it out to you with an extended arm, fingers reaching. You took it. He left the room; his cheeks wet with tears.

You stood there with brows furrowed, breathing shallow, and a heavy heart. You were cold. He was angry at you. You hadn’t thought about it; you’d just closed your eyes and pulled the trigger. He would’ve been killed. The knife had been in line with his heart.

You turned to look out the window, out at the city. It was still raining. The lights of the buildings still burning bright, unchanged, their color untarnished. Watching as the droplets ran down the pane of glass, each racing the one next to it; you caught sight of your reflection. You understood his distance now; what he was thinking. Why he wouldn’t look at you.

There was nothing to your shirt, it had been torn to shreds, the scraps of it wrapped around what was left of the bra that hung loosely from either shoulder. A thin scratch ran between your chest where they had cut your bra in two. Your naked breasts were covered in blood and grime. A dirty hand print covered one of your nipples, another wrapped around your neck. The black tights you wore were missing, and instead you stood in your underwear. More hand prints marked your hips, wrists, and ankles. Blood dripped down your legs, pouring from the scratches that littered your back and shoulders.

They hadn’t managed anything. It had been close; you had managed to fight them for long enough. He had shown up in time. He didn’t know.

“Merry Christmas!” You handed a wrapped box over to both boys. How you had managed to find wrapping paper with Bunsen burners and beakers on them would remain a secret. Ned ripped into his without hesitation, his eyes lighting up with excitement and his hand pushing at Peter’s shoulder several times as the torn paper revealed a Lego set that you knew he had been hard pressed to find.

“Thank you so much!” He enveloped you in his warmth, rocking you back and forth, giving you a squeeze before returning to his gift.

“Of course, Ned,” he reached out to give you a high five, “I’m really glad you like it.”

“Peter, this is so bad ass.” He pushed the box at Peter again causing Peter to laugh at his friend’s happiness.

“Yeah man, we’ll have to get to work on that right away.” Peter’s fingertips fumbled with the corners of his gift as he looked over the details on the packaging, smirking a bit when he saw how many pieces were inside.

“Hell yeah we will.”

Peter sat fiddling with the bow on his gift, looking up at you sheepishly. “I didn’t get you anything.” He had been struggling with balancing school and work. All of his extra money was going towards helping his Aunt pay bills she had fallen behind on.

“Peter,” you smiled at him, gesturing towards the gift in his lap, “come on, open it, please.” Ned sat quietly watching the exchange, patting his friend on the shoulder, encouraging him through the boy’s guilt complex.

Peter carefully undid the wrapping, opening the box beneath it and pulling out the knit sweater you had picked out for him. It was blue, not unlike the one he already had. He laughed, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

“Have I told you that I like you in that color?”

Ned looked down at his lap and smiled as Peter met your eyes.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

You walked into the dark of the living room to find him sitting on the edge of the coffee table. His head resting in his hands, looking more defeated than you had seen him in a long while. You adjusted the blanket so that it properly covered your chest, before walking into the room, stopping only inches in front of his form.

He kept his eyes closed as you reached for his chin, bringing him up from the shield of his hands, your fingers cradling his jaw. “Peter…”

“I can’t look at you.” The shakiness in his voice startled you.

“Peter.” He furrowed his brows, shaking his head, grabbing your wrists and trying, with minimal effort, to pull your hands away from him. You held firm.

“They didn’t take anything,” you whispered. He stiffened.

“What?”

“Peter,” you tugged a little more on his chin, trying to make him open his eyes to look you in your own. You desperately needed him to see, “Peter, please.”

You would only ever beg for him.

His dark eyelashes fluttered open, his glassy, brown orbs meeting yours. You gave him a small smile.

“They didn’t take anything from me.” His brows lifted and then pinched together again, a frown setting on his face, a look of anguish taking over his features. No, not anguish: relief.

His arms wrapped around your middle, pulling you to him, burrowing his face into your abdomen.

“It looked like…” his voice muffled against your skin; his breath tickling the little hairs causing them to rise at the sensation.

“I know, but they didn’t”

“I was so angry.”

“You aren’t still?

“Of course I am, aren’t you?”

“Peter, I shot one of them,” he looked up at you through watery lashes, “I killed him.”

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He stood waiting for you where he always did; leaning against the corner of the café, dressed in a t-shirt, jeans, and a pair of old sneakers, his hair perfectly mused. You had to laugh when you caught sight of what this particular t-shirt read: ‘-Ology.’

You gestured to his shirt, “Nice,” letting out another bark of a laugh, “Pete-ology: the study of dork.”

He let out a laugh of his own, holding a hand to his heart, “Oh, ouch,” then dropped it to offer you his arm as you started walking towards the subway, “I was going for study of awesome, but if you insist.”

Cramming in next to each other, you took in his scent, liking that his arm had gone from woven around your arm to around your shoulders, pulling you in closer; your side molding into his in the cramped, over packed space.

“What’s the plan for tonight? Ned still game for movie night?” You looked up at him, watching his expressions shift, “Or are you really going to make me study on a Friday night?” He grinned in that way that made his nose pinch up a bit.

He took a moment to answer before looking down at you with a pleased expression, “Actually, Ned has a date.”

You pulled away from him for a moment to get a proper look at his face, before deciding that he wasn’t pulling your leg, “That’s fantastic! Is it with that girl he works with that he’s always going on about?”

Peter nods his head, “Yeah,” his eyes alight with as much excitement as was reflected in your own, “the one with the- ”

“-the one with the purple hair that reminds him of the flowers that bloom in Central Park in spring?” He threw his head back and laughed at that. Ned had gone on and on about this girl in all sorts of ways for months.

“Yes, that one,” his arm tightened around your shoulders, and he drew you in even closer, his fingers rubbing your arm gently. You swore his nose had found its way into your hair.

“So are we still doing movie night, then?” As the question left your mouth, you felt his grip on you tighten, his entire body tightened, and his eyes immediately began scanning the length of the train. Seeming to remember that you were in his grip, he let you go and stepped away.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he continued to back away, “why don’t you just go ahead and wait in my apartment, and I’ll- uh- I’ll see you there in a few,” again he paused, averting his eyes. This wasn’t the first time he had done this. You had decided a long time ago that this was just one of Peter’s quirks. Like his brain stuttered and panicked when he suddenly remembered something or felt uncomfortable and he just had to ditch.

You suddenly remembered that you were expected to say something, too caught up in observing Peter and his unusual behavior. Admiring how quickly he could maneuver through a train full of people, almost having fully disappeared before you let out an, “Um, O-Okay, text me when you’ve taken care of- whatever this is!”

A hand shot out from the crowd twenty or so feet down the train, “Thanks! Be safe!”

Peter was strange, undoubtedly so, but he was good.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

There was no way to contain the tears that started falling from you as your admission hit the air, “I killed him, Peter.” You started to shake, and his embrace tightened, pulling you down to level with him, his hand cradling the back of your head and bringing your face to rest in the crook of his neck.

“He was going to kill you,” you choked on your words as your throat tightened, “I couldn’t…”

He shushed you, his fingers running through your hair as you cried, as your guilt strangled you.

“The knife was there, he had it here,” your fingers clenched at his chest, the fabric of his suit bunching above his heart. He pulled you as tightly to him as he could.

“I’m so sorry. This is on me. You didn’t kill anyone, I did.”

“Peter, that doesn’t make sense.”

“If I’d been faster, stronger, you wouldn’t have had to do that.”

“No, you don’t get to blame yourself. You don’t get to take that from me.” A sound of frustration left his lips. You could feel the watery trail of his tears reaching your face to mix with your own as they rolled down his chin and neck.

“I’m so sorry.” His words tangling with your hair, lips disturbing the tresses as he spoke.

“I thought you were dead, even after. I thought for a moment that I had pulled the trigger too late.”

“I’m alive.” You leaned back to take in the sight of him. His face was a bit of a mess; the split in his lip having grown, his eyes had darkened further, and the blood in his hair was a result of a gash that ran across the top of his forehead. It was black and blue; no doubt the reason he had gone unconscious. You reached out to push the emblem on his chest, the suit decompressing and falling loosely to his sides. His skin was mottled with bruises; his ribs appeared to be the hardest hit.

You remembered the three men who had kept kicking him. There had been six men in total. He had taken down two almost immediately. Flying into the alley, dropping onto them as he let go of his web, the rage you had heard in his voice still playing in your mind. The other four hadn’t been as easy.

The last one had been the hardest. He had nearly won.

There was a deep cut above his heart. Your fingertips smoothed over the ugly mark. Your lips found the wound next.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

You lay sprawled out on his floor in the living room, behind the couch and underneath the window, your sketchbook open and your pencil scrawling away, trying your best to capture the photo of your friends you had taken a couple of days previous.

It had been about an hour since Peter had left you on the train. You had carried on to his apartment, settling yourself in, picking out a movie from his stash and rummaging through the fridge for anything edible; in which you had found nothing, so planned to order take out when Peter texted to let you know he was on his way back.

You focused in on your drawing as you worked to capture the lines of Peter’s jaw, scratching out an overly harsh line when the sound of the door opening hit your ears. You dropped your pencil, made to get up and then froze as you saw Peter quickly removing his shirt on his way to his bedroom, revealing a familiar, form fitting, red and blue uniform underneath. Your breath caught in your throat. There was no way.

But wasn’t there? Didn’t it make sense? Of course it did, Peter is good.

His shirt dropped to the ground, his pants coming off next, showing off the rest of the suit, before he rounded the corner.

He had kept this a secret. You’d been good friends for two years now. He wanted this to be kept a secret. You weren’t going to take that from him. As quickly as you could, you started gathering your things from the floor and made your way towards the front door, closing it quietly behind you, you made a mad dash for the elevator. You needed to go somewhere for a little while to gather your thoughts and ease the panic before meeting with him again for movies.

He called out your name as the door to the elevator closed. 

You had left the movie sitting out on the kitchen counter.

When you hit the ground floor you didn’t even bother trying to make it to the street. You had been caught. You waited for him to come flying out of the door to the stairs.

He stood in front of you, nervously fidgeting his hands. His gaze bouncing between the tile and meeting your eyes. He was waiting for you to say something.

You shifted your stance. “I was going to pretend I didn’t see anything.”

“Could you though?” his hand found the back of his neck, “Pretend you hadn’t seen that?”

You laughed nervously at that, at his expression, at his nervousness. “No, but I could try if you want me to.”

His posture relaxed then, and he gave you a soft smile, holding out a hand and gesturing for you to come to him. Your fingers met and he pulled you in for a full-bodied hug; you buried your nose in his neck and he his in your hair. “Let’s go back upstairs. I have some explaining to do, and then we have a movie to watch.”

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He led you then to the bathroom. Stepping out of his suit, he stood in his boxers, pushing the shower curtain aside, he turned on the water. You watched as he stuck his fingers into the water, testing the temperature, as the steam billowed around his form, turning his hair into an even curlier mess. He turned to you then, looking you in the eye as he pushed the blanket from your shoulders.

It piled in a heap above his suit.

His fingers worked to free you of your tattered clothing, kneeling in front of you as he removed your underwear. His eyes never left yours.

He turned to test the water again, before pulling the curtain open and removing his boxers.

You hadn’t been nude in front of each other until this point.

It was anything but uncomfortable. It was what it needed to be.

In the warmth of the water; the water that so juxtaposed the cold chill of the rain that still trickled down the windows, the chill of the rain only hours earlier in that alley, you washed each other clean.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The two of you lay sprawled out over the covers of his bed, eyes closed, content in the quiet; basking in the presence of the other. At some point, his pinky finger had wrapped itself around yours in a loose imitation of an embrace.

It was a cool evening. The window had been left open from when he had crawled in earlier. He lay there still in his suit, his top half exposed, part of the suit hanging slack around his waist, mask discarded somewhere on the floor.

“So, Ned told her that he loved her, huh?” You asked, thinking back to his excitement earlier, at how happy your geeky, sunshine of a friend had been. Over the moon, really; she had told him she loved him back.

You didn’t have to open your eyes to know that he was smiling. His pinky clung a little tighter to yours.

A comfortable silence filled the room again as you instead took to just listening to him breathe; trying to match the rhythm; to meet him breath for breath.

His hand moved to cover yours entirely, the warmth of it crawling up your arm and reaching your heart.

“I love you, you know.” He said quietly, not wanting to entirely disrupt the peace.

It was impossible to contain the smile that threatened to spill out into joyous laughter as his words hit your ears, sending a bolt straight to your heart and a wave to your stomach. He was looking at you, you could feel it. You met his eyes and his smile matched yours, his eyes crinkling in that way you adored.

“I know,” you finally whispered, when you remembered that it was your turn to say something. He nodded his head and looked back up towards the ceiling, his eyes still pinched as he smiled.

He let out a little chuckle and said, “Have I told you that you look good on me?”

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Let me know what you thought! Kudos and comments are very much appreciated!


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